Tag Archives: Paul Ryan

Jack pushed open the door of the bar and squinted into the dark until he saw Bob. “Why aren’t you at the Old Ebbitt? I’ve been to half the bars in town looking for you. Are you coming over to Evan’s tonight to watch the debate?”

Bob watched him approach. “The debate? What about the game?”

“We have that covered. Two TVs. Side by side.”

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“Can I have the remotes?”

“No. And, Evan said not negotiable.”

Bob nodded thoughtfully.”I guess we know who will win anyway, since it’s all in Spin Doctor.”

“I think we go with the sound off again” Jack waved at the bartender and ordered a Bass Aie.

Bob nodded. “But not because of the visuals. It is possible that listening to this debate, without proper medication, could induce drowsiness.”

“So you don’t think Biden will implode?”

Bob shook his head. “Biden is over rated as an entertainment. He knows how to woo an audience, that’s all. Sometimes he gets caught by another audience that thought he loved them more.”

“What are you talking about? He’s married.”

“Funny. Ha ha. You know what I mean. He can talk to the Economic Club of Chicago and the Brotherhood of Baggage Handlers and they both will think he’s their guy. Then, they see the news and find out he has a multiple personality disorder.”

“Exactly. And it will be great!”

The bartender slid the bottle of beer in front of Jack, no glass, and another drink in front of Bob.

Bob went on:“No. Think. Tonight the audience is everybody. Tonight he will be buttoned down and buttoned up. No gaffes, no shooting from the lip. Just get out of the debate alive with no headlines. He can’t move the needle so–just don’t blow it.”

Jack blinked at him. “No. I don’t think so. He has absolutely nothing to lose tonight. He’ll swing for the fences. Hold up Big Bird’s lifeless body. He is going to go for the jugular, be the defender of the President. Even if he goes over the line, he’s not going to lose votes. But, he might energize the base. Right now, the air is coming out of the base. Turnout will be everything.”

“So what are you saying? You have too many metaphors. I can’t follow.”

“Abortion. The women have fled the ticket. This is no time for sweet talk. Immigration, another base issue. And then, a blend of economics aimed at black voters.”

Bob’s pinkish eyes widened. “The race card?”

“Not saying they will play it. But they might accidentally drop it on the table then quickly pick it up.”

Jack* and Bob* finally made it to Charlotte. They missed the mimosa brunch but while they waited outside their hotel for the shuttle bus, they sent me this quick update:

Jack: M.C. wants to know what really happened with the change of venue for the President’s speech? Did you find anything out?

Bob: Did you see the movie, “There Will Be Blood?” Neither did I, but I like the title.

Jack: And?

Bob: They’ve been fighting about this for the last year. One side said, “We have to have a stadium and a gazillion people like before. Maybe not Greek columns. But something big. Otherwise, it will look like we couldn’t draw a crowd.”

Jack: And the other side, let me guess, said, “yeah, but what if we actually can’t draw a crowd—won’t that look even worse? “

Bob: Yes, plus, no way they are going to get the same level of excitement—So they would argue: “Why not just go traditional this time. Make it manageable, get some movie stars. We can blow the place apart…”

Jack: And the stadium people said, “uh uh. If we do that, the sneering opposition will taunt us. Where are the Greek columns, haw haw. Where is the overflowing stadium?”

Bob: It’s like you were in the room.

Jack: And how about: “can you honestly tell me you don’t think there are 74,000 people in North Carolina who would want to see the President?”

Bob: “Especially if it is free and there are movie stars, rock bands?…”

Jack: Okay, so what happened?

Bob smiled: Bad weather. Didn’t you see the news? Because weather is news, after all. Very seldom happens in North Carolina, so they weren’t expecting it.

Jack: Right. So what’s the upshot?

Bob: There are two sides, and you can guess who they are, because I’m not going to tell you. The side that pushed for the stadium, they may need to get some of those US Air tickets home, because there might not be enough room for them on Air Force One.

Jack: Are they toast?

Bob: Let’s just say, the doubts about their judgment have been realized. They may not be fired, but are officially marginalized.

Jack: Well, it looks like they have papered over it pretty well. I read in the Washington Post a senior Obama adviser said:

Bob: No. they won’t. On Friday, they are going to be talking about the jobs report.

Jack: One more thing, because we are running out of space and I think I see the shuttle bus: What about the platform changes? What went wrong there?

Bob: First of all, as you know perfectly well, the only thing you can do with the platform is hand it to the other side so they use it to bludgeon you. In this case, the Democrats have taken that a step further and laced it with broken glass.

Jack: But how in the world did this happen?

Bob: Once again, crappy staff work. The most passionate believers –who are so wacky you can’t even let them on the stage at 5 o’clock, when nobody is watching– they get a seat on the platform committee. They drag out the platform from the last election and massage the language a little. They may try to beef up certain parts, and someone, known as a grownup, tells them no. In a nice way of course.

The language goes up the line and someone in the White House, the campaign, or both, vet it. The White House may even send some of the more complicated issues out to the various departments to make sure it is consistent with administration policy. All along the way, everyone rolling their eyes, because they know what a worthless document it is…

Jack: When you say “someone in the White House,” do you mean the President? Did the President approve it?

Bob: No way. But somebody did. Let the finger pointing begin. Because nobody wanted the most memorable, unscripted moment of the convention to be Mayor Villaraigosa saying “Let me try that again…”

Jack: Well, nobody in the Democratic party, at least. Here’s the bus.

Jack and Bob are fictional characters from my novel Spin Doctor, which is about politics (not this election). It is economical and convenient to send fictional correspondents to cover news events. The information in this story is fiction, except for the parts that you couldn’t make up.

Jack found Bob at the Hub over on Franklin Street. It was dark inside, but he could see him in his lime green polo shirt and jeans. His head was on the bar. Not leaning on his elbow, but actually on the edge of the bar.

Jack eased toward him quietly from behind and was surprised to see his eyes open, trained on the small tv set hanging from the corner of the bar. “Jeez Bob, I thought you were asleep. Are you okay?”

Bob sat up. No hello. “Of course.” He drew his drink close and looked at it fondly.

“Why aren’t you at the Forum?” Jack looked up at the tv. “They aren’t even showing the convention.”

“Duh.” Bob took a sip. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I know M. C. sent us down here to cover the convention, but. . . ” he shook his head, unable to go on.

“Are you crazy? Haven’t you heard the speeches? Even if you don’t agree with everything, I mean, I thought you were a professional.”

Bob squinted at Jack. “You just got here, right?” He took another gulp. “I went down there the first day, I was hanging around, you know, where they were doing those cable shows. I tried to watch. I was there an hour or two. I swear to God, Jack, they were interviewing corpses. Zombie politicals. And they all said the same thing. Over and over. I watched the producers. They came towards me. They started grabbing up people in the bar, making them talk on camera. I had to get out of there.”

The bartender came over and Jack got an iced tea.

“Bob, do you think maybe you got a hold of some bad fire water?”

“No way. But wait. It got worse. I went to the convention Tuesday night. I know a guy who got me some credentials. . .”

“Really—that’s great. Why didn’t you write something about it for the blog?”

“Maybe I will, when I recover.”

“What happened? Did somebody hit you or something?

“Almost. There was a sea of red, white and blue. And I couldn’t find the bar. Then, more zombies saying the same thing, more or less. The great state of something or other casts most of their votes. Bla Bla . . . Some of them had on red cowboy hats.”

“Come on, is this your first convention? That’s what they always do.”

The bartender came back and asked if I wanted to order breakfast. Not sure what he meant by that, so I said no.

“No, it’s not my first convention. But you know how we block out certain things. Like you remember what it’s like to go over to Rehoboth and swim in the ocean. You remember the hot sun and the cool water lapping against you as you walk out to the surf. But you forget completely how the waves crash down on you, knock you over, spin cycle you with sand and grit and small shells and get up your nose. I went home and burned every red, white and blue article of clothing. This shirt is all I have left.”

“No you didn’t. You can’t burn things in a hotel room.”

“Okay, true, but I got rid of it.”

“So you didn’t watch any of the speeches? Seriously?”

“I thought you were going to write that part.”

“Great. I thought maybe, since you were here, that you were. What happened to your cell phone, anyway?”

“Good question. How did you find me, by the way?”

“Easy. Asked the concierge for a list of dives. This was the first one he mentioned.”

Bob waved at the bartender and pointed to his glass. “By the way, I started a tab.”

The bartender slid his drink in front of him. “Here you go, Jack. Is that Abbott with one t or two?”

Obviously a complete waste of money to fly these characters to Tampa. Please help us by voting in the poll, so we have some kind of convention coverage.